Before we turn to stone
by waywardcherry
Summary: Quinn wants to feel something and finds an old dress.


This ficlet was based on a manip where Santana's unzipping Quinn's Sweet 16/cotillion/coming out/whatever white dress. It's angsty as all hell, set after _Funeral_. I hope you enjoy it.

..

It's not the first time she's worn this dress. It's not even the first time she's bitten her lip as she looks at her reflection in the mirror wearing it. It is, however, the first time she's managed to zip it all the way up. And also the first time somebody takes their time slowly unzipping it all the way down. The tips of her hair tickle her collarbone as the dress parts, her breath shuddery as she closes her eyes.

No words are spoken when a gush of air envelops her waist and soft lips touch the back of her neck. She can feel the goosebumps forming as Santana's lips move lazily from shoulder to shoulder. The sharp intake of breath is completely involuntary and she grasps at nothing, balling her fists when she can't find purchase on her dress. Fingertips ghost down her spine.

It's late and her eyes burn, her throat is raspy and she's not surprised when she feels wetness trickle down her back when her friend rests her forehead on her nape and holds her hips from the inside of the dress. Quinn knows better than to ask. Which is why she stands still, feels Santana's hands grab her a little more firmly after a few beats and hears her say, "I'm fine."

Santana releases the pin that was holding the remainder of Quinn's hair up and makes a point of moving all of it over her shoulder, planting a kiss behind her ear that feasibly shouldn't be felt like a jolt to all her extremities. She ducks her head, not daring to open her eyes. Isn't that how you feel things? By letting your other senses take control? _Don't you feel anything anymore?_ She feels _this_. She feels Santana's thumbs on her lower back, not smooth, but bumping a little over tear tracks; she feels the sleeves of her dress getting lower and lower down her arms as Santana noses the fabric away; she _definitely_ feels exposed and raw when it finally pools around her bare feet. There's a shiver and her arms wrap around her waist, her hands inadvertently meeting Santana's. Her first reaction is to pull them back, but quick fingers secure them in place. It's so silly. It's so… normal, when nothing about this is even normal anymore.

She's being gently turned around, head still bowed, eyes still shut. Santana's hands leave her and there's a sudden chill on the spots they just were. She feels the air around her _everywhere_. She feels her nipples harden and she bites the inside of her cheek. If it's shame, she'll work through it. She's standing in her panties in front of her best friend. A_ girl_. Who is in love with _her_ best friend. Every last thing about this should be wrong and, judging by the way her chest seems to be caving in, it certainly feels like it.

But she _feels_. And that's the point.

There's shuffling on the carpet and suddenly a hand tipping her chin up. "Look at me." That's a request she's not sure she can comply with right now. This is comfortable (as much as one can be in this situation, anyway), facing it is… not. There's also the issue of tears cascading down her cheeks when they've been held in for the past few minutes. She can't stop crying. That's all she's been doing, really, since she was told she couldn't_ feel_. Isn't that ironic? "Q," Santana says, a little more softly this time. There's no backing down. The tears don't belong only to her, after all.

She sees Santana's tights and shoes next to her white dress. She's down to the black dress she wore to the funeral, zipper open all the way down to her belly button, revealing a black bra and heaving chest. Quinn's hands are collected again and placed on Santana's shoulders. They seemingly act of their own accord, sliding the sleeves down past Santana's elbows, wrists, hands, until the dress bunches on her waist. Quinn hesitates. Before she can process what to do, her hands are being guided with the dress past her hips and they're left in almost the same state of undress. Quinn reaches for the hairtie on the back of Santana's hair, something she's done a million times. She needs something familiar. Black hair cascades down and maybe she's never noticed how beautifully broken her friend is. It's like they don't need the mirror right now.

Santana releases a shaky breath and places her hands back on Quinn's hips, stepping closer. Their foreheads touch. "Are you sure," Santana asks.

"I need to feel."

She scoffs. "Feeling's overrated."

"_You_ feel."

"I'm feeling too much, look where it got me."

She knows she doesn't mean this. It's how things are, how life and circumstance insist on throwing them another curveball just when they thought they could breathe again. She feels the very tips of her nipples graze the lace of Santana's bra every time she takes a breath. And she's bordering on hyperventilating. She might pass out if she doesn't move soon, so she descends her mouth upon Santana's and closes her eyes again. There's something swirling lower inside her belly and she shivers when Santana responds by parting her lips a little further and sliding her hand up the back of Quinn's neck. Nails scrape and pull as the kiss becomes a little more desperate, like they need the extra effort to not fall apart. Maybe they really do.

Santana spins her around when her breath becomes more ragged, and she's suddenly being pushed onto the bed by her shoulders. She uses her elbows to break her fall and looks up at Santana, standing between her parted legs, looking down at the carpet and wiping at the corner of her eye with the back of her hand. She knows what's coming and waits for it. "I'm _fine_." She responds with, "Just do it, okay?" because she knows that's what will get this moving before they both change their minds. It doesn't matter that her voice is barely audible when she does, or that Santana's eyes glisten a little more with fresh tears.

Santana places a knee on the bed, a little too close to Quinn's center, and crashes down onto her with a searing kiss. Not wanting to look again, she feels Santana's back for the clasp of her bra and promptly finds it, and a momentary untangle of limbs sends it flying across the room. It's strange, really, this feeling of breasts against her own, although a touch larger—and she remembers giving up the information to Coach Sylvester to secure her spot on the squad. There's a chuckle that doesn't make it all the way to her throat when it collides with a gasp after Santana's hand finds the side of her panties. Fingers graze her hip underneath, descending to where her thigh begins and scraping back up with her fingernails. It hurts _just enough_. She almost can't call it pain for the shiver that reaches all parts of her body and seems to settle between her legs.

Although she's _anything but_ settled.

She almost doesn't need to close her eyes for the way Santana's hair curtains around their faces in the dimly lit room. She grabs a fistful on the back of her hair and pulls, but kisses her harder when Santana whimpers and pushes her knee further up, fully pressing where Quinn feels her body thrum the most. She can't say she's ever felt anything like this before, something that just shoots up her body like a current with each thrust and she can only release through labored, raspy breaths and by grabbing at anything, be it Santana or the bedspread. This time, her hands move down to Santana's ass and pull, each time grinding closer and harder. She can't really explain what her hips are doing, meeting Santana's thigh in tandem, but she won't stop because it feels too good. Her body goes numb in some areas and the flowers on the wallpaper are kind of spinning and she can't finish any thought she starts. Her brain goes completely out of commission when Santana lowers her head and swirls her tongue around a nipple with a hand kneading the other. It just—does things and—it's all black and white and fucking polka-dotted for a few seconds where she just—_feels_. Her entire body's humming and she closes her eyes again to catch her breath and ride on that sensation for a moment longer.

It takes her awhile to notice Santana's removing her panties and repositioning herself lower. Her limbs are still heavy, but she manages to push herself up when Santana's just sitting there, legs bent beneath her, head lowered, looking at nothing in particular.

"What are you doing?"

She snaps her head up quickly and sighs. "You're talking too much."

That's when she remembers, yes, keep the talking to a minimum. That was their agreement. But it's just—"I was—I wasn't thinking just now, sorry."

"Well congrats, you had an orgasm." Quinn blinks. "It's not hard to tell, Q. Now, can we finish?"

It's about as unromantic as anything—precisely why she and Santana decided to do this in the first place. Aside from the talking issue, Santana had one other rule: Quinn doesn't get to touch her. Considering her complete lack of sublety when she said it—Brittany was right across the room—it wasn't hard to figure out why, and it was completed with "Besides, the fuck do _you_ know about getting a girl off?" Quinn saw no lies there.

She's suddenly aware she's completely exposed on her bed, with her best friend kneeling between her legs. _Mortified_ doesn't begin to cover it. Slumping back into her pillows, she brings her hands to her face to hide her blush, but this time she's afraid to close her eyes. The flowers that were spinning before are back in place and she fixes her eyes on the ones on the wallpaper behind the headboard. "_Oh_—"

Quinn's rendered speechless when lips and tongue part her folds. As Santana's mouth dips and her tongue moves and circles and—_does_ things, she grasps for the bars on the headboard. She feels like her body's running away and crashing back down at the same time. She can't look. She _won't_ look. She squeezes her eyes shut again and a moan escapes her throat, louder than she intended. Her thighs become rigid as Santana continues to do whatever it is that's making Quinn's feet slide up her torso and set on Santana's shoulders, until she needs to move again and her thighs hug Santana's head. She removes her lips just enough to say, "Don't snap my neck." Her voice is tinny and faraway and gets kind of lost in the buzzing in her ears. "_Shut up_," she manages to breathe back.

Barking orders will _never_ be a problem for her.

There comes a point where she thinks she's about to bend the bars she's holding on to and Santana just stops, crawls back up her body, fits them together once again and replaces her mouth with her hand. Santana's lips are all over her neck and jaw and then they're kissing again, and this is the moment she chooses to plunge her fingers into Quinn. The added rather tangy taste now on her own tongue makes everything spin again and it's like she's out of control. There's a kind of pain caused by Santana's ministrations, but it's different than what she felt long ago, with Puck. She'd felt stretched and like everything was burning, not in a particularly good way. This is another kind of pain, one that hurts just enough to _feel_ good. And once again her hips match the rhythm set—she's just letting her body act of its own volition. And she can't stop kissing her. She lets go of the bars and pulls Santana closer. Her name doesn't even come out right when she tries to say it, stopping at "San". When this happens, Santana's more forceful, biting on Quinn's bottom lip, curling her fingers and making Quinn's world disappear one more time.

There's no move on either part for a while. Not until Quinn feels her cheek wet where Santana's touching it with hers. A sob escapes her friend and Quinn pulls her closer, letting her burrow her face in her neck and bringing her closer. Santana's fetal, crying harder, while Quinn rubs circles on her back, letting her have her turn just feeling


End file.
